


Neighbourhood Files | Clapham Case Study #2

by ItsSweaterWeather



Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: BDSM, Bodily Fluids, Discipline, Dom Sherlock, Enthusiastic Consent, Explicit Consent, F/M, POV Molly, POV Molly Hooper, Post TFP, Rituals, Sherlolly - Freeform, Smut, Spanking, Sub Molly
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-06-16
Updated: 2017-06-16
Packaged: 2018-11-14 13:18:00
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,748
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11208855
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ItsSweaterWeather/pseuds/ItsSweaterWeather
Summary: Molly's flat is in Clapham.Sherlock resides in Marylebone. That's a lot of ground to cover. A series of stories, then, following their post-TFP relationship and what they get up to - down to - in each neighbourhood. Not all situations lead to discipline. But this one does...(please note: there is absolutely no clueing for looks)Molly’s face hovered just above him, her arms on either side of his head. His measured exhalations warmed her cheeks. Her racing pulse thundered in her ears.It was his move to take. She was not permitted to initiate a kiss on his lips so soon after the ritual. So she waited. She'd wait forever if need be.One of his strong hands fisted into her hair, quick as lightening...





	Neighbourhood Files | Clapham Case Study #2

“Why are you wearing trousers?”

Molly looked down at herself. Sky blue sleeveless blouse that she found in a fiver bin at a charity shop. Rosy pink ballet flats. Basil green twill trousers. “You don’t like my trousers?”

“You always wear skirts or dresses when you’re going out on dates—“

“It’s not a date.”

“He’s smitten with you. It’s a date.”

She shook out her hair and spoke into the full-length mirror. “It’s.Not.A.Date.”

“Hmh. You’re arguing with me. It _is_ a date.”

She spun round to face him. “Sherlock. It’s not a date. It’s _Michael_. The new radiologist. You’ve met him.”

Sherlock forced another petulant gust from his nostrils. Hands shoved deep into his trouser pockets, he spun round and continued his deliberate circuit, back and forth, across her bedroom rug. Back and forth. He'd installed himself in her room about half an hour ago, sprawled out on the bed, and watched as she got ready. By now, his presence had become routine. She craved his ritual attentions, was almost bereft without them. Evenings out with girlfriends or coworkers lost a bit of their sparkle if the night didn't begin with Sherlock at her feet. 

In the beginning of their _more than friendship_ , however, she found this practice overwhelming, being attended to by an acutely _male_ lady in waiting,..

Molly flushed with embarrassment that first time she'd stepped from the shower to find him, dark and silent, holding a towel open for her. He patted her shoulders dry, her back, arms. Between her legs, skimming the thick towel across her sensitive lips. The terry's loops rasped against her coarse hairs. The weave tickled the thin skin in the crease where pelvic bone met leg. Then the towel was traveling up her backside, wedged ever so slightly between her arse cheeks. She thought she might die from that simple pleasure. But no, he had more to wring from her... 

She learned to keep her impatience under control, waiting as he slicked his palms with lotion or oil - whatever was on hand. But there were some nights when he'd gift her with a dry oil, an obscure French or Italian brand in a cut glass bottle. Oh! How had she lived a lifetime without being treated to these luxuries? The scents - bergamot, magnolia, rosemary - a whole garden suspended in golden liquid. She was forbidden to use these oils unless his express consent was given. _They're my gift to you, Molly, and, as the giver, it's only appropriate that I mete out the terms of their use._  Sly devil. He left them lined up in the bathroom, tempting her whenever he wasn't around. She'd disobeyed him, once. Impossible for him to notice a few drops missing from the bottle...

The beating awarded for that infraction kept her from sitting comfortably on the lab's stools for three days. 

Molly smiled. She'd received one of those bottles this evening. A light oil with a greenish tinge to it that smelled of oak moss, lemon and her favorite: lily of the valley. And, as was his practice, Sherlock waited for her on the opposite side of the shower door with towel in hand. The ritual was always conducted in silence. His silence, anyway. Quiet borne out of supreme focus. All the noise would be drawn from her lips. After drying her body and running the towel over her hair, Sherlock stood back and admired her. Sometimes, he'd run one elegant finger along her bikini line scar, the faded silvery reminder of a long ago surgery. Other times, he'd trace her honey-colored areoles, the sensation just enough to pucker the skin, tighten the nipple, pull the coil of her belly. The soft contact, coupled with the absence of his rich voice, scorched her nervous system.

Breathing. His sonorous breathing. That was all she'd get while he prepared her for the evening. No observations. No quips. No rich laughter. Just breath. 

And the full weight of his crystal blue gaze gone stormy gray, scanning her body, coming at her from the bathroom's wall mirror. When you're young, you complain about not being 'big enough' here or 'slim enough' there, missing out on what the body was designed to do; move, enjoy, love. Then age sets in and all you can do is lament about not being young. Molly didn't _mind_ her body. It was _fine._ But she certainly didn't go out of her way to stand still, naked under bright white light, while her lover's eyes roamed her skim. Never mind making love within view of a mirror! 

Sherlock was the most prideful man she'd ever met. So it was no surprise, when he'd stripped down for this ritual the first time, that he did so without any of the self-conscious fidgeting that caused her arms to cross and uncross in front of her belly, her fingers to fan out and cover her mound. He stood behind her, comfortable with the reflection of his dazzling nakedness. In the wrong hands, that brand confidence had overshadowed her, diminished her, which was why she ended those relationships in favor of her self-esteem. Another gift from Sherlock, this; his taking great pride in her body without any gauzy filter. Hands mapping every inch of her skin, lips skimming her scars. Nose buried in her underarms, between her legs. Eyes watching the mirror as his palm, his fingers spanned across that swell of her belly she used to think too soft. Again, how had she lived a lifetime without this luxury?

She loved it when he used the oil. The scent and feel, trapped in the room's lingering steam, was an exotic cocktail. Too many sips and you knew you'd get drunk but you were powerless to stop, it tasted so good. The real blow, however, was visual. His frosty skin tipped pink from the residual shower heat. His nipples, the coppery color of a worn penny, in stark contrast to the slick paleness of his chest. The lean muscle, still hard as ever, now more inviting with age. Experience - especially those recent events putting his life into clear emotional context - had thawed him, if you where one of the select few whom Sherlock allowed to melt his protective ice.

Molly silently ticked off the names of bones waiting for the slick pressure of his hands. Phalanxes. Ulna. Tibula. Fibula. Clavicle. All of Sherlock's were superb. And then he was at her neck, rubbing warm oil into her skin. Strong, nimble hands kneaded her shoulders. skimmed her spine. Molly arched under each phalanx, every callous. Her muscles, already soft from the steam, turned liquid under his touch. What she loved and loathed most, though, was when his large palms slid round to her front, rolling over her belly, stroking up the center line of her body. Squeezing her breasts. Back down to skim her coarse hair, massaging oil on her mound until the strands glistened, catching the light. She purred into him with her bum, pressing back along his length. Hard and velvety, flat against his abdomen. She felt tiny beads of his pre-cum in the middle of her spine and whimpered. She'd get none of his cock before her _not date._  

That was the ritual. She was oiled and massaged from toes to nose. He may dip a finger or two into her folds, paint his lips with her wetness then smile at her. But he would not grant her release. Or himself. He'd encourage her moans and sighs but he wouldn't utter a sound. He'd lavish his hands on her, skim her back, glide his cock over her arse, her belly. The corner of his mouth may quirk up as clear fluid dotted her skin. But she was not allowed to touch him. Not while he worshipped her.

All these luxuries and gifts, lived without for so long...

"He's sweet, Sherlock. Just lonely."

“Which is precisely how I know it’s a date. I’ve seen the way he looks at you.”

“He’s new to London—“

“I’ve see the way he looks at _me_ which is, again, how I know he’s asked you out on a date.”

Molly ignored him. “Anyway… He’s new to London, wanted someone to show him 'London Town at night' as he says—”

“So he’s asked the woman who spends her free time in either the park with a book or the library with _many_ books?” He flopped backward onto the duvet, arms stretched wide. “Where are you taking him? Foyles?”

Molly crossed to the bed. "We're going to someplace in Shoreditch. His treat." She traced his knee with her finger. "In case you haven't noticed..." Then stood between his legs. “the woman with the books…” She leaned over him and kissed the pale skin at his collar. “…has neglected her beloved bookshop scones…” another kiss to his Adam’s apple “…in favor of spending her free time with…” a kiss to his chin "...the world’s only consulting detective.”

Molly’s face hovered just above him, her arms on either side of his head. His measured exhalations warmed her cheeks. Her racing pulse thundered in her ears. 

It was his move to take. She was not permitted to initiate a kiss on his lips so soon after the ritual. So she waited. She'd wait forever if need be.

A hand fisted into her hair, quick as lightening, the other pulled her down on top of him, slamming her core into his growing erection. Or maybe it hadn't yet subsided.

“Don’t contradict me.” He captured her mouth with his and kissed her. Hard. “It’s a date. He adores you.” He bit her lip. “Why wouldn’t he?” Then he planted a chaste kiss to the tip of her nose. “Trust me, Molly, He’ll like you in a dress.” He released her hair and tucked the fallen strands behind her ears. “ _I_ like you in a dress.

“Sherlock, I’m not a tease.” But he’d already moved on, tossing her aside and jumping off the bed, single-minded focus. Always. She rolled over and laughed into the duvet. “It’s not a date.”

She heard him rummaging in her wardrobe, assessing outfits, pushing aside hangers in search of something that no doubt would please  _him._ “Let’s see…” She was left, forgotten, on the bed. “Ah…here we go.” He spun round with a vintage summer cocktail dress in deep coral. It had capped sleeves, smocked sides and a dainty v-neckline. The little covered buttons running down the front looked like colon marks, set off as they were in pairs. _The punctuation of expectation_ as a favorite teacher used to say.

He had exceptional taste. Still, it felt odd accepting wardrobe advice from the man you were in love with to spend the evening on a friend date with another. Even though it was absolutely not a date. “Yes, that’s awfully pretty-”

“I’d like you to wear it.”

She snorted. “You’d like me to not wear pants.“

“Hmmm… Now there’s a thought.”

“No. Sherlock. I’ll wear the dress. But I’ll also wear my pants on my _not date._ ”

 

The dress Sherlock picked was one of her favorites. While she didn’t have the curves to stop traffic, the retro style gave her petite frame some volume. She switched from the pink flats into a low black heel and finished her make-up in the bathroom - a quick brush of her eyebrows, a bit of mascara and a swipe of gloss across her lips. She’d never been any good at all that cat-eyeing or lip-lining.

Early experiments to captivate Sherlock with sensual, pigmented lipsticks proved disastrous. He either dismissed them with an adolescent remark or ignored them altogether. How ridiculous they’d both been. One determined to attract, the other desperate to repel. Once they’d met in the middle however…

A pink glow tipped her cheeks, warmed her belly. His earlier adorations would keep her on the knife edge of arousal for the rest of the evening, causing her to blush, uncontrollably, at inconvenient moments.

Sherlock Holmes was an absolute fuck.

Molly put her hair in a pert, high ponytail and grabbed the vintage clutch she'd discovered at a boot fair in Lancashire.

She walked into the lounge, fumbling through the bag's interior.“Keys. Mobile. Gloss. What am I forgetting…?”

“Come here.” He was stretched out on her sofa, scrolling through his mobile. The picture of long-limbed relaxation. She wanted nothing more than to slide down his body and settle between his legs. But she’d postponed Michael’s requests for a primer on Bart’s culture and gossip so many times, he’d started prefacing his invitations with I _know you’re busy but here’s what I’m doing on such and such night if you aren’t tied up._

Michael had no idea how close his cheeky words came to the truth.

“So? What do you think?” She twirled in front of him, frock blooming out from her waist like the petals of a bell flower.

“Very nice.” The words rumbled through her, playing off each vertebrae. With other men, it was an off-handed _yeah, you look good_ or a too brash _can’t wait to get you out of that outfit._ Sherlock’s manner infused simple interactions with so much heat, his voice caressing the backs of her knees, the nape of her neck.

He opened his palm and she placed her hand in his. “I should hope so since you’re the one who picked out the ensemble —“

Molly didn’t so much s _ee_ Sherlock move as _felt_ him. A blur of pale skin and heady friction all at once, legs swinging off the sofa as his hand flipped, capturing her wrist in a vice-like grip and pulling her, face down, across his lap.

“Give me your safe word, Molly.” 

His taut quadriceps pushed into her belly, forcing breath and the key to her libertation from her diaphragm.

“Cadaver.”

“Good girl.”

She’d yet to utter it, to free herself. That was the way this worked. Trust in his love and absolute authority or say the word.

And live without it.

Molly never knew what emancipation was until he’d struck her that first time.

She bent her head and smiled into his calf.

His hands, still soft and fragrant from the oil, roamed the backs of her legs, long fingers trailing over the crease at her knees. He folded the hem of the dress up her back, careful not to wrinkle it, then began kneading her thighs.

“Oh, Molly…” Sherlock’s voice shook slightly. She imagined his translucent eyelids fluttering as they did whenever he set about to discipline her. “Such a pretty little backside you have.”

She felt his teeth slide across the cotton of her pants, then nip at the plumpest part of her bum.

“No, I certainly don’t want you entertaining another man while not wearing your pants…” He smoothed his hands over her arse, squeezing and molding.

Molly sighed into the pleasure. She’d been the worst kind of hypocrite, giggling with girlfriends about the depravity of kink and how she’d never subject herself to the clichéd, dominate male so popular in movies. Then Sherlock blew through the mortuary doors.

He was no cliché.

Time she'd spent in the lab concocting fantasies about being taken in hand was… well, second only to the weekend afternoons she'd lost splayed across this very sofa, imagination and vibrator whirling at the thought of being under his command. She’d no idea what she’d been searching for until it appeared at Bart’s.

Now, here she was trying to relax, aware that the moment she did so, a corner of his mouth would quirk up. Lion would circle lamb, never delivering the first blow until she least expected it. How could anyone want to be freed from love as exquisite as that?!

“Do you know why you find yourself across my lap, teasing me with your fresh scrubbed skin and cotton pants?”

Molly sunk into the dance, her body slack, her pants already soaked. She closed her eyes and shook her head.

“I didn’t hear you, Miss Hooper.” His voice was as stern as his grip.

“No,” she whispered into his bespoke trousers. The first strike came before she’d closed her lips around the vowel. The thin fabric stretched across her arse muffled the sound and a bit of the sting. But it was the mental image of his flat palm spanning her bum, the knowledge that he never settled for just one blow, that made her breath hitch.

“That,” he grunted, “is for your ignorance.”

Another blow, then his hands were caressing the sides of her hips.

“Think, Molly. Why are you receiving a paddling?”

She hadn’t done anything deserving of this treatment. Although she’d tried her best. Their days and nights together - wedged between her duties as godparent and shifts at Bart’s, coupled with his sessions in Ella's chair, alternate afternoons devoted to Eurus and Rosie, and twice-weekly dinners with Mycroft and his parents - were even less plentiful now that he’d started taking cases again. God, she missed him when he wasn't near...

A kiss to the small of her back, just above the waistband of her pants, to compliment his long strokes. “Molly… I can always tell when your mind is wandering. It shouldn’t be that difficult.”

She rubbed her check against leg. Then her pants were around her knees, his thumbs sliding down the split of her arse.

“I’m going to count to five, Molly. One…”

Teeth to her bare bottom.

“Two…”

Lips to the dimple where bum met lower back, sparks jumping up her spine.

It wasn’t her impending _not date_. He was no more jealous of Michael than he’d be of John. The new radiologist was simply a feather with which to tease her. _Jealousy, Molly, is a useless emotion that destroys the very thing it seeks to flame. Desire._ So, no, she wasn’t on his lap because she’d accepted an invitation from a coworker.

“Three…”

Tongue between her cheeks. She wiggled into his plush lips, his wicked lashings. He was doing this on purpose, Distracting her.

“Four…”

Two bony fingers dipped into her thighs, barely pushing inside her lips to unleash some of her wetness. Then they were gone, a fleeting promise that left her whimpering.

“Ohhhhhh…” Molly almost forgot herself, coming close to tearing the fabric of his trousers to stifle her moan. This beating was child’s play compared to the punishment he’d wield had she torn through. The thought made her pulse thunder...

“Insolence!” The word sailed out of her mouth and around the room. It was a fierce exclamation for a weak answer. _Insolence_ was almost always a given. But, clever Sherlock, he’d want details, demand examples.

He placed one hand flat against her lower back, applying just enough pressure to the base of her spine so as to leave no question that insolence, alone, would get her nowhere.

“Five.”

Molly felt two fingertips press against her lips, warm and slick.

“Take my fingers into your mouth, Molly. That’s a good girl.”

She keened around them, her supplication transmitted in every suck.

“I don’t suppose you can tell me which insolent offense this beating is in response to, what with your mouth so busy,” he chuckled. “So, allow me to tell you…”

_Smack!_

_Smack!_

These blows were harder than the first set of 'love taps' now that her pant were removed. Red and white flashes exploded behind her eyelids. Again, she nearly lost herself, stopping just before sinking her teeth into Sherlock’s elegant fingers. Her jaw hurt from the effort.

“You contradicted me.” He panted from exertion. And desire. “Back in your bedroom.” She felt the ridge of his cock, like a sword, fully sheathed but still menacing, pushing into her ribs. He removed his fingers from her mouth, clasped her chin. “Open your eyes.” She did as instructed. Always. His blue eyes once again gone gray with need. “Don’t do that. Don’t contradict me, Molly.”

Her heart hammered in her chest. She knew he could feel the beating against his thighs, adding fuel to his fire.

“I said your Michael thinks he’s taking you on a date. It’s a date, Molly. Do you understand?”

She nodded in agreement as much as his grip would allow.

“Good. Excellent.” Sherlock smiled at her, a grin that stretched wide over his elegant face and crinkled his eyes. “Now you know why I want my girl to look her best. You matter most, Molly. I like showing you off even when I’m nowhere in sight.” He let go of her chin and set both hands back on her bum, grazing her burning flesh with the lightest of touches. “But then, I’m never too far away, am I, Molly?”

“No. Never,” she exhaled and dropped her head.

“I know every corner of London, don’t I Molly?”

“Yes…”

“Yes. I do.” He inhaled through his nose, held the breath then blew a stream of cool bliss across her bum. “Mmmm….your arse is so good and red. You really are the perfect gift, Molly.”

“Thank you.” She wept at his kindness and his compliment.

“No. Thank _you_.”

Sherlock kissed each cheek - a softness that hurt like hell.

_Smack!_

“There.” He slid her pants back into place. As if the smooth cotton didn’t sear enough, his hands spanned her bum one last time, molding her to his palms. “Five blows for contradicting me five times. You’d have done better to follow the example set by Peter, stopped at three," he chuckled.

For a man who didn’t believe in God, he certainly loved his biblical fables.

And he was her religion.

“Up, or you’ll be late. Don’t want to keep Michael waiting.”

She stood before him on shaky legs as he fluffed her hem and ran a hand over her bodice. He placed a virginal kiss at the hollow of her throat and leaned back. The lion was satiated. For now. His lamb was free to go.

“I won’t be here when you get back, Molly. Got things to do. Text me so I know you’ve made it home safely.” Sherlock didn’t mention Baker Street. She knew better than to ask. They’d sleep apart tonight. She’d spend the entire evening willing the hands of the clock to spin round faster to tomorrow.

“OK.” She nearly cried. 

His mouth quirked up, the muscles of his face serene and sin all at the same time. That expression was his final blow before sending her into the night on her _not date._

“Don’t forget your sweater.”

\- FIN -

**Author's Note:**

> This particular case study has an addendum waiting... In Shoreditch. Stay tuned.


End file.
